


From Moon to Stars & Back Again

by scintilla_misha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, M/M, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 14:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14875614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scintilla_misha/pseuds/scintilla_misha
Summary: Grief is an animal. You simply learn to live with it, care for it, make it part of your life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warning: This story does include a vague mention of suicide/suicidal ideation. If you’re particularly sensitive to this kind of material, please read with caution. 
> 
> This story is written as a challenge for the Potterotica podcast spinoff group, the Pen15 is Mightier. To learn more, check out Potterotica on Apple Podcasts & visit the Potterotica group on Facebook! 
> 
> And please check out the rest of the stories in the vacation challenge collection!
> 
> As a note, I have adjusted the time period this occurs in. It is 5-6 years after the war, but occurs in modern day. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Anything that you recognize is borrowed from JK Rowling. 
> 
> The title of this story is inspired by Paulann Petersen’s poem, Falling Stars, a selection of which occurs at the beginning of this story. 
> 
> A quote from Nick Cave in the documentary One More Time with Feeling is also featured at the beginning of this story. You can watch this documentary on Amazon Prime.

Outside my familiar landscape  
of wallpaper, curtains, doors,  
I could hear the coyotes  
throw their great circle of cries  
up into the air, two owls criss and cross  
their voices through trees;  
I could turn from moon to stars  
to moon, watch them to sleep,  
rouse to see them again, and go again  
back to sleep in that wide outside;  
then wake in morning to find  
the sleeping bag, my face, hands  
wet and shining with what, at dawning,  
fell to the ground. 

(Falling Stars, by Paulann Petersen) 

 

——

 

“Most of us don't want to change. What we do want is sort of modifications on the original model. We keep on being ourselves, but hopefully better versions of ourselves. But what happens when an event occurs that is so catastrophic that we just change from one day to the next? We change from the known person to an unknown person, so that when you look at yourself in the mirror, do you recognize the person that you were, but the person inside the skin is a different person?

So that when you go outside, the world its the same, but now you are a different person, and you have to re-negotiate your position in the world. For instance, when you go into a shop to get cigarettes, because this new version of yourself smokes, and the shop owner says, 'How are you?' And you don't know how to answer. Or when you meet a friend on the street who says some kindness, and suddenly you are crying their arms for ages, and then you realize that person is not a friend at all, but someone else that you don't actually know very well. Or you go into a bakery to buy a loaf of bread, say, and you're standing in the queue, and someone grabs you by the arm says something with their kind eyes, but you can't work out what they've said because the new you can't hear very well. And so you say, 'What?' but too loudly, and angrily and he says, 'We are all with you, man,' and you look around and all the bakery is looking at you with kind eyes. And you think that people are really nice. **But when did you become an object of pity?** ” 

(Nick Cave, _One More Time with Feeling_ ) 

 

——

 

The International Travel department of the Ministry of Magic is in one of the dreariest, oldest parts of the entire ministry—at least in Harry’s opinion. 

Not that the rest of the Ministry is anything too spiffy: most of the corridors are narrow and dark, most offices look like the entirety of the 1970s has been condensed into singular rooms, and there are some spots of carpet that Harry suspects would be better suited to a crimes unit than a hallway. 

But the International Travel department is set back from the main corridor on one of the lower floors and cramped into a space that is simply much too small for it. The entire department, from the offices in the back to the front lobby where wizards line up to request PortKey access to various international locations, takes up only as much space as the Burrow kitchen, Harry estimates. And everything is gray. Gray carpet. Gray walls. Gray podiums. The only color is the lime green robes of the witches and wizards who work for the department. 

Harry wonders what, exactly, the goal of that was. He glances around him. The walls seem remarkably close and getting closer. The room, crowded with people as the summer holiday season starts, smells vaguely of antiseptic cleaner, something Harry registers as distinctly “Muggle.” He can also smell everyone around him—not a pleasant feeling, surely, but the room is warm from the early summer sun streaming through the dull, dusty windows situated at the very top of the room. Everyone is sweating and anxious. Worse, Harry hears a man behind him coughing and blowing his nose. 

Through the high windows, Harry can only see a sliver of a nearby Muggle building, the fluffy white clouds, the pale blue sky of morning. 

The lines move slowly because the process for international travel changed dramatically after the war. It’s not as easy at it once was: no more pureblood families just bopping over to Paris or Milan to hide out. There are rules now: application forms, regulations, checks and double checks. Harry had been in favor of the changes, at one time or anything, but standing in line now, he feels that perhaps the process needed some tweaking _before_ it was put into effect. After all, everyone lining up has bottlenecked into absolute madness in the back of the room, clogging the door, preventing even employees from getting to their offices quickly. 

All of the employees are young: probably just out of Hogwarts, Harry guesses, clearly in entry-level Ministry jobs hoping that taking on the unpleasant work of telling people they either can or cannot go on the vacation they’ve been planning will get them valuable connections to other departments. Working in the Ministry isn’t quite what it used to be, especially after the war, but plenty of young witches and wizards still hope for it. Surely this, however, is not what they imagined: endless hours of scanning applications for “known Dark wizard” or “old lady who once set an enchanted rug on her neighbor,” then having exactly 5 seconds to process whether that person should be allowed to leave the country. 

Harry’s line moves slightly as an elderly woman finally gets permission, despite a previous summons for some dubious transfigurations to Muggle items, to visit her cousin in Canada. He sets down his suitcase for a moment, stretching his hand, which has begun to feel tight and hot from gripping the lacquered handle. As he does so, someone catches his eye to his left. A few spots ahead in the line next to him is a man: tall, slim, wearing dark, nondescript robes and holding merely a black, leather travel bag. His hair, which is the thing that caught Harry eye, is almost pure white. Draco Malfoy, Harry registers with a clarity that is both stunning and almost funny. How long has it been since Harry saw Draco Malfoy, let alone _thought_ about him? And how odd that Harry had momentarily forgotten what Draco Malfoy looked like? 

For a moment, as with any old school pal (though his school years are only 5 years behind him), Harry thinks of saying hello, leaning forward and tapping him on the shoulder. A million individual impulses tell him to do it, to say hello, to let bygones be bygones. He thinks of Draco Malfoy after the war, his pale face and hair grimy with dust. There were mere children among the rubble. But he stops himself. He’s in line for travel after all—and Draco is a well-known adjacent to a war criminal. He wonders how easy it will be for Draco to be approved for international travel with that sort of record. He never gets time to see, though, as at that moment, 12 more International Travel wizards, wearing their signature lime green robes, are ushered in, the room is magically expanding for the time being, and the lines separate, getting shorter. 

Harry finds himself standing in front of a young witch with purple hair. For a moment, he is reminded strongly of Tonks: she has the same slightly pug-liked nose, the same freckles dotting her nose and cheeks like a cinnamon sprinkle. She smiles faintly and takes his papers, flips through them. She wears glasses, the wire-framed kind with the large lenses, and when she checks his name again, she peers over the top at him. For a moment, the way she looks at him makes his stomach flop. It is a familiar look, one he receives in almost every single shop: it is not admiration, really, but some mix of pity and concern. 

“All set, Mr. Potter,” she chirps. She removes a PortKey from the storage box in front of her—it is a packet of what look like American crisps—and places it on the pedestal slightly behind her and taps it with her wand three times. Just as it begins to glow bright blue, Harry grabs it, feeling almost frantic.

 

——

 

Ginny broke up with him on a Tuesday. It was just after Christmas. The air was cold, and dry. In their small, shared apartment, the fairy lights were still strung up above the fireplace. The stockings, now empty, were still pinned there too. The room smelled like evergreen and mint, the familiar, happy scents of Christmas dinner and pudding. They’d returned from the Burrow and Harry, exhausted after another long afternoon of Molly Weasley asking when they would get married, collapsed on the couch in a heap, thoroughly exhausted. 

“Remember when we first got together?” Ginny asked. _Yes_ , Harry had thought. For most people, he reckoned, time seemed like it just blinked by. But for him, the gaping, yawn of space between the first time he kissed Ginny and the moment he currently found himself in was a painful swirl. Too much pain. Too much emptiness. 

Those first months, he always remembered, counted as the happiest of his life. The days by the lake, running over the hills of Hogwarts, chasing her shining red hair like a Snitch. In those days, Ginny had been autumn and sunshine, the smell of ginger cookies baking, the soft feel of a blanket around his legs after a cold night. But those memories, sun-bathed and golden, were eclipsed by the days and days of endless hunger in the next year, the constant uncertainty, the fear of being found, of being harmed, of having a friend die. And of course, the war itself, the worst two days of his life and Ginny’s life too. 

The war seemed to kill the thing inside Ginny that had shined. She was still herself, of course: strong, resilient, a beautiful stone polished by the sea. But sometimes, when she looked at him, Harry could see it in her face, the raw hunger, the question of whether life would have been better if she’d never loved him. Ginny, he understood, was like everyone else, with their endless questions and expectations. She craved, just as the others did, things that he was unsure he could give her, unsure he could get anyone. 

It couldn’t always be late May with her, being 16 and kissing by the lake. There were the hard days after the Battle, when Hogwarts had felt like little more than a ruin with more ghosts than ever before. She had been the decisive force he needed then: telling people what to do, telling _him_ what to do. Loving her had been easy then because he needed her, he needed the voice, the guidance—

But then, they settled into real lives. Ginny went back to Hogwarts to finish up her certifications, then she joined a rookie Quidditch team with the hope that she would end up on the English national team. Harry started Auror training, being allowed in purely on his name since he hadn’t technically finished school. At first, he loved training: he loved the feeling of being back at what he thought he was good at, having Ron at his side, showing off for everyone else who had also fought in the war. Being Harry Potter had felt good then. 

It happened suddenly, as suddenly as things like that often did. One day, Harry loved his training, loved Ginny, loved their little apartment together. Then, the next day, it was if someone had stuffed the air full of cotton balls. He looked around the room at Auror training that day and realized he didn’t know what he was doing or why he was trying to be an Auror. He had never known what he was doing. He had coasted on pure luck and adrenaline for 7 years. 7 long years. And the adrenaline had stopped. He went home that day, got into bed, and didn’t get out. Not for weeks. He laid in bed for those long weeks, staring at the ceiling, drifting from bed to fridge to bathroom and back again. 

In the warm summer nights and the cold winter evenings alike, Ginny arrived home from practice, showered, and sat in the dark of the room at his feet. She sometimes talked to him. Sometimes, she begged him to get up, to act. To be the Boy Who Lived. “We worked too hard,” she said, quietly, one day, the snow falling heavily outside. He closed his eyes to her voice. “We worked to hard for it to be this difficult for you. What can I do?” 

Lying on the couch, the air around him as cold as anything he could remember, Ginny sat down at his feet again. Like she always did. Harry knew it was coming, could feel it in the air. The iciness. Ginny, her mouth set in a harsh line, her eyes shining, looked at him, brushed a piece of hair behind her own ear.

When he looked at Ginny, he no longer saw autumn fire, but embers, the dying embers of a girl who had loved him, completely and totally, who had trusted him to step into the choreographed dance everyone had laid out for him. It was no fault of her own. He told himself that a better man would have done it, would have forced his feet into the pattern of steps, followed them endlessly to make her happy. A better man would have forced himself out of bed after a week, would have gone back to Auror training. But Harry, who had spent long, painful years of his life doing everything he could to stop a madman, to improve the world for other people, wanted, for once, to think of his own well-being. Wasn’t that what Hermione had always harped at him for, endangering himself under his hero complex? He could not bring himself to follow the steps laid ahead of him. It lacked purpose. It lacked precision. He felt hopelessly adrift in those days that stretched into months, those months that spun slowly into years. 

“I can’t do this anymore, Harry,” Ginny said. She sniffed, looked at her lap. “I think you know that.” 

“Yes,” Harry replied. He felt nothing at the moment, nothing but cold. “You deserve better.” 

“I’ll always love you,” Ginny said. She cried then, tears that dripped down her face, traveled along her jawline, fell off the curve of her chin to land on her hands, folded in her lap. When she looked at him then, her eyes so brilliantly bright, he could have sworn she was on fire, Harry saw it then too: pity. 


	2. Chapter 2

Crescent, Oregon isn’t, perhaps, the expected place to go on vacation, Harry realizes. 

When he told Hermione and Ron where he planned to go, they both asked him where, exactly, that was. He showed them on a map, pointing out both the town of Crescent and the large Crescent Lake where he had rented an entirely Muggle cabin, planning to spend his one week of vacation time fishing, sitting by the water, and generally enjoying a landscape he had never been to before in his life. 

When he said this, Hermione had looked away quickly, her lips pursed into a thin line. Ron had clapped him on the back and said it sounded great. But a few weeks later, he’d embarrassed himself by overhearing them discussing, asking why, exactly, Harry wanted to go camping _again._

“I think we’ve all had enough camping for a lifetime,” Hermione had whispered. Harry had stood, clutching a bottle of Firewhiskey, wanting to surprise them, his back pressed against the wall outside their kitchen. 

“Well, Harry’s been a bit off the last few years,” Ron sighed in return. 

“I worry about him, you know,” Hermione had said. With that, Harry had gone back the way he’d come, Flooing out of their living room fireplace and spinning into place in Grimmauld Place. 

After taking hold of the crisp packet, Harry braces himself to the familiar feeling of PortKey travel. It is like being sucked through an awfully small straw. He lands, somewhat clumsily, on his feet in the middle of a small copse of trees. He feels the ripples of magic around him and realizes this is a designated PortKey spot for the area. He carefully folds the crisp packet and stores it in the front pocket of his robes, which he quickly pulls off to reveal his Muggle traveling clothes. 

After stowing his robes in his suitcase, he walks to the road. A road sign indicates that it’s a short walk to the entrance to the Crescent Lake cabins and yet, for a brief moment, he freezes, unable to decide what to do. For a moment, he wishes he wasn’t there. It’s beautiful, but it feels like he is looking at it through frosted glass. As if he is living two lives at once, one slightly hazier than the other, and occasionally they overlap. He resists the urge to sit down, to bury his face in his hands. 

He starts walking, instead. Through the ponderosa pines, he can see the faint shimmers of the lake in the distance: golden, iridescent blue that calls to him. It is as if light itself is crooking its finger at him and beckoning him closer. He follows a path to the front office, where a rather elderly man gives him the key to a Waldo cabin, number 10, he says, before gruffly returning to his paperback, dime store novel. 

Harry walks to his cabin, which is a small affair set up a hill from the lake. The view from the front porch is the best he could have imagined: he has a perfect view, the winding path that takes him down to a small dock. He unlocks the door, noting the age of the cabin, the weathered, reddened wood of the porch, the two dark green, plastic chairs. Inside, the cabin smells of wood—of the artificial, clean smell of hotels as well, but mostly like the outdoors. 

Everything is rustic, homey, very 1980s. From the window in the kitchen, Harry spots a timber tiger running across the bed of pine needles and up a tree.

Harry drops his suitcase on the bedroom floor rather unceremoniously and flops onto the bed. 

Exhaustion threatens to send him hurtling to sleep. The time change, especially with PortKey travel, can be extremely challenging, even at the best of times. But after waking up early to clean his apartment, answer one more owl from Molly Weasley begging him to beg for Ginny to take him back, and then hustle to the Ministry to queue in the International Travel department for hours… he would have been tired, even back in London. He thinks of the fact that he is always a little tired, always a bit on the edge of needing a nap. He sighs, readjusting on the pillows, rolling onto his back and folding his hands over his stomach.

He blinks, staring up at the windows, with their little, flimsy half-curtains patterned with mallard ducks and crossed oars. The entire bedroom is lined with windows that take up the top half to the wall. It would have made for a light, airy bedroom—if the rest of the room wasn’t dominated by wood panelling and dark furniture. It all feels a bit closed, a bit suffocating. 

In the distance, he hears a bird cooing—a sort of soothing, happy sound that reminds him of the long, summer days of his childhood, which he spent excitedly planning his return to Hogwarts. How often had he wished away the summer season, looking forward to the golden days of Fall? Fall meant Hogwarts, Hermione and Ron, who were always a package deal, always a pair, hearty meals in the Great Hall, interesting classes, adventure and fun, and Quidditch on early Saturday mornings in the golden light of autumn and Draco Malfoy—

Briefly, before he drifts asleep, Harry realizes that he counts Draco Malfoy as one of the things he looked forward to. But he has no time to think further on that in particular.

 

——

 

Harry wakes with a start, barely 90 minutes later. He groans, rolling off the bed, and thumping, rather painfully, to the floor. His limbs feel like sludge as he scrambles to remove himself from the floor, pulling himself up gingerly on the bed. He forgot, of course, that international travel via PortKey can cause weakness in the limbs for up to 24 hours. 

The cabin has the closed, warm feeling of being mid-afternoon, the heat almost unbearable. In the kitchen, Harry runs water in the sink until it goes cold, then fills a slightly scratched glass and drinks it down in a few swigs. He is refilling his glass when he notices the next cabin over, perhaps 100 years away, has a large, black SUV parked outside. 

As he drinks a second glass of water, he hears a door slam at the cabin next door. The thought flickers across his mind that he should go next door and say hi. _You’re here to relax,_ another, different voice whispers, perhaps the voice of reason. _Just a walk then_ , Harry concludes. 

He leaves the water glass half full on the counter and puts on the hiking boots he brought along. It is the first bit of adrenaline he has felt for a long time, the first reminder of how decisive, how impulsive he had once been. 

“I’m going on a walk,” he says, resolute, to the mirror on the wall. It does not reply, though he expects it too. How strange, he thinks, that he’s gotten so used to wizarding mirrors that a Muggle mirror is now a surprise. 

 

——

 

Harry does not go for a walk through the trees, looping down to the lake to skip stones. No, instead, he walks on the path to the cabin next door. It’s like looking at a carbon copy of his own cabin: the same front porch, with two dark green plastic chairs, the weathered screen door, the same wood panelling. The dark SUV parked alongside it speaks to wealth, Harry realizes, but he does not hesitate as he steps onto the porch and opens the screen door, then raps on the dark green door behind it. 

Footsteps inside the cabin pause, but then turn around, walking to the door, wrenching it open.

Harry freezes, staring at the face in front of him. It is Draco Malfoy, his pale, short hair looking particularly messy, his periwinkle blue eyes twinkling somewhat in the dying light of the afternoon.

“Of course, it’s just my luck you’re here, isn’t it?” he says. There is no arrogance, however, in Malfoy’s voice; he looks perfectly placid and calm. 

“Sorry, I just—I had seen the car, I didn’t know it was you,” Harry says. He gapes slightly, then closes his mouth. “What are you doing here?” It sounds accusatory when it comes out of his mouth—but it’s not what he meant, not really. He thinks of the fact that, just a few hours ago, he had spotted Draco in front of him in line, noted that he still could pick Draco’s silhouette out of any line up, the shape of his shoulders and the lay of his hair. How odd, it had struck him, that he both recognized Draco instantly and didn’t recognize him at all. How time, it seemed, was simply a rubber band snapping on his wrist, reminding him again and again and again of the yawning expanse of pain behind him. 

“Presumably the same thing you are doing here,” Draco says, rather drolly. Harry is reminded at that moment of Snape—the memory is not a pleasant one, but one that reaches into the void. It jolts him to think of Snape, the way Snape had looked at him as he died, the blood dribbling horribly down his neck in huge rivets, pooling beneath him. Harry resists the urge to shake his head to get the memory away from him, to bite the feeling back. “What are you doing here, then?” 

Draco leans against the door frame, inspecting him. Harry appreciates that Draco is not hostile, merely curious. Draco smiles slightly, waiting for an answer, but then starts talking himself: “I saw you, of course, as the international travel department. Everything is so easy for you, isn’t it? Mr. Potter, barely any questions to get a PortKey, while the rest of us scramble to answer questions about our great great grandfather’s involvement with Goblins.” 

“Your great great grandfather was involved with Goblins?” Harry asks. 

Draco laughs. “You really are horrible, aren’t you?”

“Not as bad as you,” Harry grins. He realizes then that they are being shockingly friendly. Harry toes at the welcome mat then, feeling a little stunned with himself.

Draco sighs. “What are your plans for tomorrow then? Want to go hiking, you sad sack?” 

“I am not a sad sack,” Harry says. 

“You absolutely are,” Draco replies, rolling his eyes. “Well? Do you want to? I’ve been coming here for 3 years and I know the best trails. Or did you not walk over here because you are a hopeless extrovert and despite your desire to get away from the world, you’re extremely, mind-numbingly lonely even surrounded by the people who have basically deified you?” 

Harry stutters in response, before finally just nodding his head. Draco Malfoy’s skills at reading him still make him want to scream. But Draco had always known how to push his buttons, known how to hone in on little weaknesses and, apparently, strengths. 

“Meet on the path at 8am,” Draco says. “Bring water and food, ok?” With that, he steps back and lets the door shut. 

For a moment, Harry stands there, wondering just exactly what happened to Draco Malfoy in the 5 years since he had last seen him.

“I’m not a sad sack,” he mutters, walking back into his cabin. He glances at the mirror and wishes, just for a moment, it would reply, _yes you are_.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry wakes to a horrible pounding on his door. It reminds him of a freight train barreling down the tracks. For a brief moment, he wonders if something has gone horribly wrong. Then, glancing with clouded eyes at the clock, he realizes that it is 5 minutes past 8am. He groans, again, and rolls out of bed, padding through the cabin. He wrenches the door open before he even thinks about it. Outside, the air is as cold as ice. For a moment, Harry stands, stunned, the ice air drifting over him in waves of shock and near pain. 

“Jesus!” Harry exclaims, before he realizes that Draco Malfoy is standing there, wearing a knitted beanie cap, a hiking backpack, and a gray sweatshirt. He somehow looks completely out of place and perfectly at home.

“It’s 8am,” Draco says, calmly. “I see you neglected to pack an alarm.” He rolls his eyes and pushes his way into the cabin. When, Harry wonders, did Draco become so… friendly? “Get dressed.” Draco drops his backpack onto the sofa and walks into the kitchen, leaving Harry still clutching his own shoulders, the door wide open. 

Harry slams the door and goes to find his clothes, using the bathroom before wriggling into jeans, a t-shirt, and a sweater. He sits on the closed toilet seat to pull on wool socks and his hiking boots. 

“Do you just not do anything to your hair or is that the look you’re going for?” Draco asks. He stands in the doorway, holding a Thermos of coffee. It smells amazing and, thankfully, Draco hands it to him. Harry glances in the mirror in the bathroom and grimaces at his own reflection. His hair, as usual, goes every direction but flat. He would try to smooth it, honestly, but what was the point? 

“Alright, now that you’ve wasted 20 minutes, let’s get going,” Draco says. Harry collects his own small hiking bag—which he realizes Draco has packed for him with bottles of water and granola bars, a turkey sandwich and two apples—and follows Draco out the door. 

“You know you could have just gone without me,” Harry says, to Draco’s decidedly impatient looking back. 

Draco glances over his shoulder at him and smiles. “And miss the opportunity to see you in your pants? Never.”

Harry silently drinks his coffee then, unsure of how to reply to that jest as his expense. They wind their way around the lake, a view that is marvelous, if extremely cold. 

“Is it always this cold here?” Harry asks, as they begin to climb the slope of a hiking trail. Draco glances at him as Harry finally makes it to walk in step with him. 

“We are literally on the edge of a mountain, Potter, so yes, it usually gets much colder at night. In July and August, it can get quite hot during the day, everything dries out,” Draco says. “There have been some horrible wild fires, so be careful with your wand and matches, you know.” 

“I’m always careful with my wand,” Harry says, defensively. Draco rolls his eyes. 

“Sure you are,” Draco mutters. They round a corner, their footsteps crunching on the path strewn with crushed pinecones, old, yellow pine needles, and drying grass. Everything looks, and feels, clean and new, Harry realizes. The air smells like the lake: like fresh linen and wildflowers, the coffee in his hand, wood and the mildew of age, the rotting mushrooms and old logs. He likes it. 

They hike in silence, the sky opening up, finally, to reveal a mountain ahead of them, the trees falling behind them. The sky is perfect, crystal blue—the kind of blue that reminds Harry of the sky at Hogwarts at the end of exams, the long walks around the lake. And oddly, he realizes, none of those memories include Ginny anymore. Looking down, he can see the lake still, the smooth, clear water reflecting the crystal blue above. 

It’s a good feeling, Harry realizes, to be in the air, the emptiness of it, and to not be missing the thing he thought he should be missing. Perhaps that was the hardest part of breaking up with Ginny: realizing that, after it was said and done, he never really missed her. He missed the idea of her. He missed the long afternoons in the sunshine with her, the feeling of having another soul fighting alongside him. But… what was there to miss? He hopes she doesn’t miss him, hopes she finds someone who can give her their entire self. The only thing is, he realizes, how happy he is to have Draco with him. Draco, who he would have still called his mortal enemy not even two days before. 

By the time they reach a small summit, where the trail flattens out, revealing a 360 view of the lake and cabins, which are beginning to look more like shapeless blobs than anything else, Harry has sweat pouring down his face. His hands shake as he dumps out the last remnants of his coffee, putting it in his bag and taking out water. 

Draco sits down on a rock and gives him a look. 

“What?” Harry asks. 

“Nothing,” Draco says, shaking his head. He opens his own bottle of water and drinks a few times before pausing, glancing at Harry, and saying, “I thought Aurors were in good shape.” 

“I’m not an Auror, so that explains it,” Harry says. He flops onto the ground near the edge of the path, swinging his legs over the edge—which feels a little dangerous, but when has he ever worried about that? 

“I heard,” Draco says, quietly. 

“Oh, so you asked just to be rude?” Harry retorts. He turns to look at Draco and realizes there is no look of haughtiness on his face. Just curiosity, again, and, notably, he is not looking at Harry with that mix of pity and concern that many of his friends adopt when they talk about his Auror training. “What?” 

“Just confirming,” Draco shrugs. They sit for a while, taking in the view, the wind rustling through the brush around them. Below, Harry watches a family load into a boat to drift across the lake. The father laughs so loudly that Harry can hear it as clearly and as distinctly as a wind chime. He grins, leaning forward, wishing he had had that kind of childhood, wishing he could dive into another life and experience it for just a day. How happy, he thinks, to never have to worry about anything but yourself. 

“Do you wonder why I asked you here?” Draco asks. He starts to stand up, returning his water to his backpack. It’s been barely an hour, Harry realizes, that they’ve been hiking. Surely, there’s more. Harry follows suit and then, as he swings his backpack on his shoulders, realizes Draco asked him a question. 

“No, I thought… maybe you were just lonely like me,” Harry says. He feels naked then, for a moment. He never would have used the word lonely to describe himself. Yes, he felt adrift at times, like a ship dislodged from the ocean, scooting across the sand, drowning in the waves every night. But lonely? He had plenty of friends, weekends at Luna’s, visiting Neville in Hogsmeade, sitting beside Hermione in her warm kitchen. Not that he can exactly pinpoint the last time he actually took them up on these offers. But that’s what matters: the offers. He blinks and Draco stares at him. They stand on the path, merely looking at each other. It is the quietest showdown in history. 

“Maybe,” Draco says, with a shrug. “C’mon, the top is even better.” 

“How much longer though?” Harry asks, feeling impatient. 

“Are you always like this? Did you ask how much longer during Auror training?” Draco laughs and Harry huffs. 

 

——

 

They hike for another two hours. Harry removes his sweatshirt almost at the top, wrapping it around his waist. Draco follows suit not long after. Harry is stunned to see him in a t-shirt—the idea of Draco even _owning_ a sweatshirt, let alone a t-shirt, feels… strange. Like looking at a naked animal. But it also feels perfectly normal. 

Harry realized, not long after the end of the war, that not everyone was as they appeared. He had changed, of course, just like everyone else. Everyone thought they knew what to expect of him; they thought it would be easy for him to slip into his new role, like putting on a second skin. He’d done it before, hadn’t he? He’d slipped easily into the wizarding world, adapting quickly. He’d fallen apart within a year. There was no slipping easily into the new role. He’d invested too much in the old one, into being the Boy Who Lived. 

Draco Malfoy was not just a haughty little boy in pristine robes, with slicked back hair and a smug, highly punchable face. He had grown, of course, just like Harry, into a man: a man who wore a cozy looking knitted cap, knew more about hiking than perhaps anyone Harry had ever met, and who inexplicably urged Harry to the top of a very tall mountain. Harry wonders, as he sluggishly follows Draco’s final steps to the summit, if this is what people consider having a well-rounded personality. _If this is the case_ , Harry thinks, _then count me out. I’ll keep being dull-witted._

Draco stands at the edge and spreads his arms. He looks gleefully at Harry. “Well, what do you think?” 

It is spectacular, of course. They are above the lake, dwarfing it into barely a puddle beneath them. He can make out the green roofs of the cabins, the tiny, winding path, the main lodge, the multiple docks. The family in the boat is still floating, a mere speck in the jewel of the water. It is sapphire blue now, so beautiful Harry almost gasps, rippling as a small breeze hits below. The air feels warm and dry, pleasant. The air smells like wildflowers still, sweet and slightly mildewy, like sage and pine needles. He can hear bees buzzing and the tiny footprints of some kind of animal behind them, but he doesn’t care. He merely stands, sweat dripping down his forehead, down his back, pooling at the line of his jeans. 

“I invited you because I know that you’ve not been doing well,” Draco says, suddenly. 

Harry’s stomach drops. He glances down at his feet, his dirty hiking boots. Draco shifts slightly. 

“It’s not pity, mind. It’s just… I know. I wasn’t doing well either, when I first came here,” Draco says. He sniffs. “I always wanted to come here, to Oregon. I’ve always wanted to be somewhere else, go somewhere else. It took a long time, to get approval to come, but I did. And it was worth it. I found meaning again here.” 

“Oh,” Harry says. His eyes prickle with tears, but he is not sure why. He stares down at the lake, the family drifting across the surface. Everything is beautiful and for the first time since the war, he feels the golden sun again. He feels warm again. Yet, he wants to push Draco away and hide, like he did when he was a child. He did not truly realize just how gray everything had been before. And to suddenly see color feels overwhelming. 

“Are you alright?” Draco asks, quietly. He shrugs. “I know you probably don’t think it of me, but I do care about people, you know? At least now. Not before. I didn’t before. Not until—“ There is a long pause. Harry looks at him finally. Draco’s eyes reflect the lake, looking darker than usual. His face, which once struck Harry as so pointed and rat-like, is relaxed. He looks handsome, his high cheekbones and sculpted chin. “The war changed both of us, in different ways.”

“And similar ways,” Harry says, quietly. 

“Yes,” Draco replies. “I’m sorry about Ginny. I heard.” 

“It was a long time coming,” Harry says. He shakes his head. “I wasn’t good to her. Wasn’t good for her. I couldn’t give her what she needed.” 

Draco nods. They finally sit down, shedding their backpacks, digging out bottles of water and sandwiches. They eat in silence, letting the wind cool them down as the lake below shifts from deep sapphire blue to bright, vibrant teal as the sun centers itself in the sky. 

 

——

 

They hike back down together, chatting amicably along the way. Harry learns that Draco spends at least half the year in Oregon. He has an apartment in Portland, he explains, and then he vacations in Central Oregon, switching between different cabin sites throughout the year. The black car outside the cabin is his own car, he PortKeys to Portland, then drives to Central Oregon. He enjoys driving, he explains. His favorite color is off white, not black as Harry had suspected. He eats mostly turkey sandwiches, as he can’t cook; he takes his coffee black; and he can’t stand tea. His mother doesn’t appreciate him spending so much time in the United States, but he also refuses to tell her exactly where he goes. 

“So, what about you?” Draco asks, as they finally reach the cabins. Harry pauses. 

“You know everything about me, I think,” Harry shrugs. As he says it, though, it feels untrue. Draco knows that he once played Quidditch, but hasn’t thought about the sport in months, let alone played a game. Draco knows that he was once in Auror training, but quit. Draco knows the things that teenagers once knew about each other. But they aren’t teenagers anymore.

“Tell me one thing about yourself, before I go back to my cabin,” Draco says. It is a light prodding, like a teacher demanding one fact from a student before moving on. Harry hems and haws, toeing the earth beneath his shoe. 

Finally, Harry says, “my favorite color is purple.” 

This, of course, sends Draco into a laughter fit that seems to fill the trees themselves. Harry starts laughing just a moment later. As he walks into his cabin a few minutes later, he realizes it is the first time he laughed—really, heartily laughed—in a very long time. 

 

——

 

Harry spends the afternoon lazing on the sofa, reading a book about Ted Bundy and munching on Oreos he purchased from the small store by the lake. His feet ache from the hike, but it is a good ache. It is nearly dinner time when he hears a knock on his door. His stomach flips as he realizes it can only be Draco. 

More Draco. If he travelled back in time to tell his past self that he would spend most of his vacation with Draco Malfoy, he would have spit in disbelief. 

Draco is dressed in another t-shirt, a pair of different jeans (black, somewhat slim fitting, rolled over black boots that are shiny and perfectly clean), his hair damp from a shower. “Would you like to go to a brew pub?” 

“What’s a brew pub?” Harry asks. He is still wearing the t-shirt from their hike. He stinks, he realizes. He feels slovenly, grimy, as if he is virtually expanding into a puddle before his own eyes. He shoves his hair out of his face and blinks a few times, staring into the sun-like presence that is Draco Malfoy. 

“Do you ever leave the house, Harry? Been under a rock?” Draco asks with a laugh. “A brew pub? Microbrewery? You know, the big trend?” Draco puts out his hands, palms to the sky, as Harry stares blankly at him. He shimmies slightly, as if this will spur Harry’s memory. When Harry stares at him blankly, he drops his hands to his waist and sighs, pursing his lips. “Ok, well, go take a shower and change your clothes. You have 10 minutes.” 

15 minutes later, Draco is driving them to Sunriver. He explains it is just under an hour’s drive, but worth it. The Sunriver Brewing Company makes some amazing beer, apparently, as well as some great food. The landscape as they drive flattens out, slightly, giving way from mountains to the high desert of Bend. They pass rows and rows of aspen trees which melt into small towns with Taco Bells and grocery stores. 

Sunriver is located just off Highway 97, not far from Bend. The exit ramp meets a road that slices through thick, ponderosa pines that seem to sweep the sky. After a roundabout, the houses begin to appear: expensive, all mid-70s in design, split levels and A-frames, and nearly identical, painted in muted shades of green, beige, and blue, looping on streets with names like Beaver and Stag. There are walking paths that wind everywhere, crowded with families dressed in North Face vests and Nike leggings. Children ride bikes with helmets buckled tightly under their chins, screeching to a halt when they see a car. Draco pulls into a rustic looking shopping center that boasts a Starbucks and parks. 

“Sunriver,” he says, as if reciting for class, “is a planned community that started selling lots in 1969. It’s a popular vacation spot in both summer and winter.” He cocks his head to the side and then grins. “It’s lovely in the winter. There’s ice skating. C’mon, a brewpub awaits.” Harry considers how excited he is. How is it possible for Draco Malfoy to be this excited about a microbrewery? 

They wander through the shopping center, which is all cobblestone pathways and tasteful planters. Very early 90s, Harry thinks, as they edge around a family enjoying ice cream cones. The Sunriver Brewing Company is exactly what Harry imagined: a trendy, open plan restaurant with a noisy concrete floor and jovial employees with heavy beards. 

Draco picks a table by the window and proceeds to order beer samplers for both of them.

“Five beers?” Harry asks, slightly concerned. Draco rolls his eyes. 

“Small ones,” Draco says. He holds up his fingers, as if measuring, and then shrugs his shoulders, smiling. “The reuben calzone is good, by the way. It comes inside a pretzel.” The excitement on Draco’s face reminds Harry, for a moment of Ron. Ron, who enjoys nothing more than a good meal. Harry almost wonders if some kind of body switching incident has occurred. 

“What’s this about?” Harry asks. He doesn’t touch his menu. Doesn’t look at it. If Draco is shocked by the question, he doesn’t show it, merely continues to scan the menu before looking up. 

“I thought I told you,” Draco says, quietly. His face shifts slightly, like clouds floating over the sun. “I know we didn’t get on in school, but—“ 

“Didn’t get on at school is an understatement and I am fine, I assure you,” Harry snaps. He picks up his menu and tries to hide behind it, suddenly feeling skittish and anxious. He wants to leave. He wants to make himself very small and slip through the windowsill. He wants to start running until he finds a cave he can live in for a hundred years. 

“Have you seen yourself?” Draco asks. “I hardly recognized you in the International Travel terminal. Honestly, Harry…” He reaches forward and pulls down the menu. He looks Harry directly in the eyes and it’s unnerving how pale his eyes look. “You look like shit, you know that right?” 

“Fuck off,” Harry says, but he knows he’s smiling, knows he can’t deny it, knows that Draco’s comment is both serious and an attempt to make him laugh. Knows by the way his clothes fit that he has seemed to shrink, rather rapidly, in the past year. Knows that his hair is more of a mess than ever before. He cannot remember the last time he showered before the one he took less than 2 hours before. The last time he ate something green, something beyond a takeaway, the bare minimum to feed himself before returning to his regularly scheduled programming of mindlessly watching TV or staring at books pretending to read. 

“You were the golden boy,” Draco says. He blinks a few times. Harry feels it coming, in the pit of his stomach, the explosion of something that he once understood as anger, but now knows is fear. The fear of being seen, being called out, blooms inside of him, like some kind of bomb. He can take all kinds of pain, but he can’t stand pity. Anything other than being viewed as absolutely pathetic. “It set you up for failure. Trust me, I know how that feels. Now, if you’ll actually look at your menu and not use it as a makeshift shelter, maybe you’ll find something you enjoy.” 

 

——

 

Harry dozes on the drive back to Crescent Lake, feeling positively stuffed after eating what felt like 400 different things, as well as sampling beer until it all tasted about the same. Draco drives as the sky drifts from pale blue to darker, the horizon turning delightfully purple. 

“How’d you know?” Harry asks, suddenly. He is watching the aspens whiz by the car as they approach the Crescent Cutoff. Draco turns on his indicator and shifts to turn. 

“What do you mean?” Draco replies. 

“About me and Ginny?” 

“I work in real estate,” Draco says, with a shrug. “I saw that Ginny petitioned to have the apartment put into just her name. Where are you living, by the way?” 

“Grimmauld Place,” Harry sighs. 

With its crumbling walls and depressing dark interior, it was exactly the wrong place for him to move after the break up. It reminded him of Sirius: the long, awful days Sirius must have spent there, wishing he was anywhere else. If only Sirius could have gone to America, seen the lake, seen the sky, seen the _mountain_. Harry wonders if Sirius ever got the opportunity to travel, to see the world, to be frivolously sad or happy.

For a moment, Harry’s eyes prickle again. He keeps finding himself toeing the line, edging up to tears—but it is as if they can’t come, as if some invisible force stops them. When, he wonders, was the last time he cried? After the war? Looking down at Fred’s body, at Lupin and Tonks, at poor Colin Creevey, the boy he should have made friends with? All the people he had never written letters to. All the people he should have counted as friends instead of war comrades, instead of mere acquaintances, instead of bodies who had laid down their lives for him because he asked them to. When Neville hugged him after the battle, Harry wanted to beg his forgiveness, for not being a good friend to him when Neville had only ever been a magnificent friend to everyone around him. Yes, he thinks, that was the last time, when Neville hugged him and they both cried, because they were both orphans of the war, both casualties in the same way. Two golden boys, sobbing in the Great Hall surrounded by dead bodies.

“I always forget you own that,” Draco is saying, as Harry blinks his eyes rapidly to dissipate the tears. “Anyway, I saw that, put two and two together. Asked around. You’re not the only one that Luna invites round to tea, you know. Except I actually show up.”

“Oh really?” Harry asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Not like that, of course. But she told me you were sad,” Draco says. “You know how she is.” He waves his hand at his eyebrow level and widens his eyes. “Intuitive.” 

“Wait, you and Luna are _friends_?” Harry asks. He sits up straight, leaning forward to stare at Draco’s face. 

“What, shocked?” Draco asks. He puts his long fingers to his chest and says, feigning offense, “You know I _am_ capable of being a good friend, as I have demonstrated in the last 24 hours.”

“Fair point,” Harry says. He leans back. “What do you talk about?” 

“Luna and I? Oh just our shared passion for travel.” 

Harry can’t really tell if it is sarcasm or not, but he feels too tired to continue the conversation. He puts his head to the window and closes his eyes, just for a moment. 


	4. Chapter 4

He wakes up in the dark, in the bedroom of his cabin. His things are stacked rather neatly on the bedside table, his shoes lined up against the wall. Everything feels still and silent, oppressively so. He feels as if there is an iron on top of him, some kind of weight which he can’t lift. He wants to roll over, but he cannot summon the energy. 

Finally, Harry manages to throw his legs off the bed, pulling himself into a sitting position. He puts on his shoes, stumbles to the kitchen, and drinks a glass of water. He wipes his mouth, standing at the window. He can see the lake, shimmering and smooth. The lake, he thinks. He needs to touch it. For a brief moment, he considers the brief possibility of crawling inside the lake. What would it feel like, he wondered, to wrap himself in that blanket of cool, sweet beauty?

He pulls on a sweatshirt that he had discarded on the sofa and leaves his cabin. He does not lock the door, though he feels the key in the pocket of his jeans. He trails down to the lake, the air smelling clean and crisp, the night air extremely cool. 

At the surface of the lake, he stands for a moment, letting the air run over him. It is soothing in a way that he hasn’t been soothed in a long time. 

In the days after the war, when they were both balls of frazzled nerves, shifting from one emotion (jubilation) to another (grief as deep as an ocean), they would often spend hours lying in bed. Ginny’s hair, vibrant red and soft, as soft as satin, would splay over the pillowcase. Harry would run his hands through it, over and over, the motion soothing. Ginny would close her eyes and hum, comforted at the same time as him. Small things. Little joys they found in the process of rebuilding, of pulling themselves up from the ashes. At least that’s what Harry had thought. He wondered if perhaps there had no been rebirth like a phoenix. Perhaps he was still in ashes, flailing desperately for some kind of anchor to pull himself out. 

“If you’re going to jump,” a voice says, startling Harry so much he spins and loses his balance on the rocky shore, sending him splayed onto the ground, “I highly recommend you don’t. I’ve just started to like you.” 

It is Draco, dressed in sweatpants and a sweater, his hair rumpled, his face still creased with the fold of a pillow. It is strangely intimate to see him this way, sleepy and ruffled. Harry finds himself feeling as if he should look away, as if this is the breech of some kind of etiquette. Harry makes it to his feet again. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. In my defense, you scared me.” 

“What?” Harry asks. Draco moves to stand beside him, carefully bending down to select a smooth, flat rock. “I’ve never skipped rocks.” 

“Let me show you,” Draco says. He positions his body sideways, winds back his arm, and effortlessly tosses the stone. It skips three, four, five times before plunking into the lake with a solid slurping sound.

“Wow,” Harry says. 

“I put a charm on your cabin, in case you wandered out,” Draco says. He rolls his eyes when Harry looks at him. “Don’t read too much into it, please, but I was worried about you. Everyone’s worried about you, you know.” 

“Everyone is always worried about me,” Harry says. He selects his own stone, replicating the way Draco stood, the way he had pulled his arm back. He tosses the stone, feeling like he is pulling on a rubber band, and watches it skip three times before sinking. 

“Good job,” Draco says. “I don’t mean worried like, oh what is Harry going to do now? But more like… is Harry Potter ok? Did we break Harry Potter?” Draco glances at him then. It is furtive and worried, his eyes reflecting the stars in the sky. 

“I don’t know how to fix what’s gone wrong,” Harry says. Draco tosses another stone. “I don’t even really know what’s wrong.” 

“Maybe nothing needs fixed,” Draco shrugs. He sighs then and looks at Harry. “When did the impulsive boy who always had a plan start saying things like that? Even if you didn’t know what to do, you always _did_ something. God, you hounded me like a maniac 6th year.” 

“To be fair, you were plotting to kill Dumbledore,” Harry says. 

Draco smiles, even though they both know it’s not funny.

“What did you fix? How did you change?” Harry feels desperate for a moment. He wants a book to read, a plan to follow. He depended for a long time on Hermione writing up plans for him: revision schedules, homework notes, everything. There is nothing to tell him how to move on from being the Boy Who Lived, then the Boy Who Died, to the Boy Who Grew Up, the Boy Who Moved On, the Boy Who Became a Man Who Doesn’t Know What He Wants.

“Who says I’ve changed?” Draco asks. 

“You have,” Harry says. “You’re not… you’re not the you that was at school.” Draco pauses, turning a wide, flat stone over and over in his hand. 

“I’ve become a better person because I’m not a child anymore, just like you aren’t a child,” Draco says, calmly. He clears his throat, bends to scoop up another rock. He turns it over in his hands, carefully, rubbing his thumb over each side. The movement is calming, Harry realizes, a little quirk. He bends and selects a stone as well, repeats the movement. Yes, he thinks, it is as soothing as he thought it would be. “When you looked at me at school, you had preconceived notions. I acted like an asshole, so all you saw was an asshole. We’re grown ups now.” 

“I’m glad you called yourself an asshole,” Harry says. 

“When people look at you, they see the Harry they think they know,” Draco says. He skips the stone then, cranking his arm back. 7 skips. “They see the Boy Who Lived. But do you know what I see, Harry?” 

“What?” Harry asks. 

“I see the little boy that I met in Madam Malkins. Confused, directionless, unsure of whether he fits in anywhere,” Draco says. “I could have been better when I met you back then. I could have been kind, but I’d never been taught to be kind—just superior. So when you came to the door of my cabin yesterday, I made the choice to help you. And when you came out here tonight… I thought…” Draco pauses, as if his voice is catching. He looks away. “I thought I’d missed my chance to make things right. To right one of my small wrongs.” 

“Why though?” Harry asks. 

“Because I didn’t once,” Draco says. “And look what it got me.” 

They are silent for a long time, skipping stones. Harry finally takes off his shoes and walks onto the dock, sitting on the edge to put his feet in. The water is like ice, lapping around his ankles, but he leans back on the palms of his hands and tilts his head to the sky. Draco sits beside him, but refuses to put his feet in the water. 

“What do I do now?” Harry asks. 

Draco shifts. He looks young in the moonlight, boyish. Harry realizes they are still young, very young. He feels old though, his bones creaking, exhausted most of the time. Draco turns his head and smiles. 

“You can do anything you want,” Draco says. “You can go anywhere you want. You can be anything you want now.” 

“Everyone wants me to go back to Auror training,” Harry replies. 

“Fuck Auror training,” Draco snorts. “What do you want to do? If you could do anything when you leave here, what would you do?” 

Harry stares out across the lake. In the distance, on a tree, he can see a hawk ruffling its feathers. He hears an owl in the distance. The skittering of mice through the brush. 

“Maybe… I’d buy a house in the countryside,” Harry says. “Maybe Ireland. Maybe Scotland. I’d—“ He pauses, unsure if he should say the thing that he has always thought of, always dreamed of. He glances at Draco. 

“Well, you’d what? Don’t leave me hanging,” Draco asks. 

“Teach at Hogwarts.” 

Draco claps his hands. “There it is then. You have the money. Apply at Hogwarts! McGonagall loves you, she’d fire anyone to help you. I bet she’d drop kick Flitwick in a second, you were always good at Charms.” 

“Dropkick Flitwick?” Harry says, aghast. 

“Not literally.” Draco nudges him then. They laugh together and it is then that Harry realizes how cold it is, how the wind seems to shift everything aside inside of him. How free he feels, sitting by the lake, with Draco.

 

——

 

In Grimmauld Place a week later, Harry drops his suitcase onto the floor of the kitchen. For a long moment, he stands there, letting the stagnant air of his home wash over him. It feels good to be home. But sad too. The dark corridors of Grimmauld Place recall nothing but negative memories, sadness. It is if the walls have absorbed all of it. He wonders just how exactly he is supposed to rid this space of that feeling. 

And he wonders where he will ever get the energy to take care of it. 

Everything is scrubbed clean from before he left, though his owl, Travis, is asleep on his spot outside the kitchen window, a pile of mail on the counter. Harry sorts through it—a letter from Hermione, a note from Ginny regarding the apartment, a few other letters from friends. Things he had been ignoring for a while, hoping he would get the motivation to write back to them, to meet them for the coffees they all suggest. 

He scoops it all up and carries it to his office downstairs. It was a sitting room, once upon a time, with dark green and silver carpeting, horrible, heavy brocade wallpaper in dark gray, a tiny, dirty window that should look out to the garden. He stands in it for a moment. He moved in a desk, yes, and a bookcase. But the room looks no different than the last time Sirius Black saw it, Harry is sure. 

He thinks about what Draco told him: _you can do anything, you can be anything, you can start anything_. 

Harry takes out his wand. He’s never been exactly great at transfiguration, but it’s worth a shot. There are a few small mistakes: the very small corner of the carpet remains the same green and silver design, as he lost his concentration there. But otherwise, the carpet has been turned into a subtle, off-white shade, lush and heavy beneath his feet. The walls are no longer wallpapered with heavy brocade, but rather a subtly patterned white with small, green vines. The dark curtains have been replaced with green, patterned with gold stars and moons, just like the ones that had hung in his dormitory at Hogwarts. 

He Scourgifies the window, removing a few months of grime and water stains, and transfigures the paint on the windowsill from dark brown to white. He admires his handiwork. It is exactly what he wanted his office to look like: airy, inviting, bright. It's not all he needs to do, but it's a start. 

He sits at his desk and begins opening all the letters he has received, and ignored, for six months. There are notes from Neville asking if he’s ok, letters from Hermione giving him advice, a note from Luna with an obscure quote. He arranges them in order of when they were written, so he can respond to the most recent ones. He feels exhausted just from this work. 

_Do what you can in the time you have_. Draco said that too, standing on the side of the lake on their third day together. Harry had felt brighter that day, lifted. Each day with Draco, exploring the hiking trails, eating good dinners in Bend, Sunriver, and Sisters, skipping rocks as the sunset, had seemed to lift something from his chest. 

He had gone to Crescent Lake to unwind, to loosen the thing inside him that seemed to squeeze, painfully. And it had happened, funny enough, from having another person there to force him to do things, to push him further when he wanted to stop halfway up a trail, to drag him to town for dinner where he was then pushed to try a new dish. 

Draco, looking more sun-kissed and golden than Harry had ever seen before, stood beside the lake and merely talked. He never told him what to do, exactly. He just talked about what he had done. How after the war, he had felt directionless, confused as to what he should do. The world, it seemed, wanted nothing to do with the Malfoys anymore—and here, Draco had glanced at Harry and sighed. “I don’t blame anyone,” Draco said, “it was with good reason. What had I ever done to earn the right to have respect?” The world, Draco added, moved on.

He continued, saying he had drifted for a few months. Travel, of course. Harry had heard that, heard that Draco had drifted around Paris and Berlin for several months, before crisscrossing the entirety of Europe, then Asia, then back again. When Draco returned, he could no longer fight the inevitable; he took to bed then, for four long months. He barely left his room, barely ate. Just like Harry. 

“Grief,” Draco said, skipping one last rock in the dying light of day, “is an animal. It lives inside of you and it doesn’t leave. You simply learn to live with it. You take care of it. You nurture it. You keep it from hurting you. Eventually, it becomes part of your story, the pet that no longer hurts you, but gives you something else.” 

He paused then and Harry stared at him. Yes, he understood: grief, the thing inside of him that seemed to maul him occasionally, was just like an animal, an unwanted pet, wild and careless and eternally nipping at his heels. “It can give you something, something you never expected.” 

For Draco, he explained, it had been Oregon. The day he got out of bed for good, he knocked over a stack of books on his dresser. One of them landed open to a map of the Willamette Pass in Central Oregon. He made plans to come to Crescent Lake, which he had spotted as he went to close the book. He packed a bag, applied for the travel, and went. The first visit was difficult, but good too. He decided not to leave. He stayed for four months, bouncing around sublets in Portland and Bend, dotting his way across the state. When he returned to England, he started selling his father’s properties for him. It all fell into place. Real estate combined his two loves, travel and keeping things in order. He shrugged as he had said it, as if it was nothing at all, to completely change the trajectory of life. 

Harry realizes, thinking of it now, that Draco has the benefit of hindsight. But he’d never lied. He said it was hard.

At his desk, Harry takes out a piece of parchment, dips his favorite quill into ink, and pauses. The air smells like the paper, waxy and clean, and the ink, deep purple and almost mint scented. He tries to remember all these little things, to appreciate them. How many times did he dot ink across paper and never appreciate it?

_Dear Draco_ , he starts. Pauses. Taps the quill on his bottom lip, then tilts his head down again.  _I’m sitting in Grimmauld Place, wondering how to start this letter to you. Thank you for everything you did in Crescent. Who knew that Draco Malfoy would make such a good life coach._

_I’m sitting in my office, wondering why it all has to be so hard, why I don’t recognize anything about my life anymore. I’ve been wrapped up in the feeling that there is no place for me in the world when it no longer needs saving. And I realized I was happiest when you were with me._

_So, instead of writing to my friends who’ve been begging me to dinner for ages, I’m writing this note for you. I guess you’re right, I am a sad sack. I’d like to see the Oregon Coast. I think it would be good for me. And I’d like to see you again, if nothing else._

_Best,_

_Harry_

Harry carries it to Travis before he can stop himself, instructing him to leave it at Malfoy’s residence for him to return to. He makes a cup of coffee in his kitchen before returning to his office. He sits for a moment, staring at the boxes in the corner. All his books from school, saved by Hermione. He wonders, for a moment, what comes next. He wonders when the space meant for him will open up to accept him, the way it opened up for Draco. 

He closes his eyes and for a brief moment, he remembers Draco by the lake, the breeze ruffling his hair, the sun a perfect orb of gold behind him. There is laughter in Draco’s eyes, shadows across his face like a painting. Draco in that moment looks like winter, but he is summer sun and sweet cream, skipping rocks on the lake, sweat running down his brow. He is peace and quiet, and home. For a moment, the grief in Harry’s chest, the animal that is curled, heavy and growling, inside of him, stills. 


End file.
